


A Note On The Table

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Confession, M/M, who left a note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-04 10:37:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14591214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: Tables have many things sit on them. Newspapers, bowls, glasses, tv remotes.This table is different. It's significant.





	A Note On The Table

Weary to the bone, I'm plodding up the steps, into the flat, dropping my coat over the chair, as I debate, tea or bed. 

* * *

I've been working overtime at the clinic due to flu season, and two days ago a doctor and nurse were struck with the same symptoms. Filling in, I've worked over eighty hours this week.  
I really want a hot cup of liquid to warm my body, and set the kettle on the burner.

* * *

Sherlock must be in his room. The door is shut and I hope right now that he doesn't come out.  
All is quiet in the flat, and I'm glad. Don't need some bouncing, hyper detective to continue the noise that surrounded me earlier in the day. The coughs, choking, crying, whining, sneezing, wheezing tumult.

* * *

There's the newspaper on the seat of my armchair, and bending down to pick it up to peruse, while waiting for my tea, I spot a yellow slip of paper on the side table.  
In black bold print, is written, 'I LOVE YOU'.  
What the shit? Looking closer, I know for sure it's Sherlock's scratchings.  
For a case? Not one I know about.

* * *

Shrugging my shoulders, I head to the kitchen where the teapot is whistling. Take out a teabag, not in the mood to let the leaves steep, pour the hot water over the bag in the cup and go back to sit in my chair.  
Sipping and reading the paper my glance keeps falling on the little paper. Strange that it would be sitting on my side table and not his. Is he alluding? Nah! Can't be!  
The sports section finished, I fold the paper and, without thinking place it over the yellow paper. Rinsing out my teacup, I retreat to my bedroom to get some wanted sleep.

* * *

Groggily waking, looking at my phone, the time is twelve-sixteen. It's afternoon. Really needed that shut-eye time, I guess! Up and into the bathroom to shower, to get dressed.  
The flat is still awfully quiet. No violin playing, the clanking of glassware.  
In the sitting room, I see no sign of Sherlock and I peek down the hall to see his door is open. No sign of him.  
Checking my phone there's no text or email. Wonder what's up.

* * *

The kitchen is overflowing with his microscope, flasks, and vials. Clearing a space on the table to eat I make myself eggs, bacon, and toast. Boiling up some tea I clear a space so I can eat.

* * *

I don't have to be at the clinic until the evening, and after eating and cleaning the dishes, I grab a book from my bedroom and saunter back to the sitting room to slide into my very familiar and comfortable chair.

* * *

My eye catches the yellow paper. But I do a double take. I could have sworn the 'I LOVE YOU' was written in black marker. But this one is red. I stare at it as if it will reveal the mystery to me. Slap me upside the head and give me the aha moment.  
Now I'm all wound up. Picking the paper up, my hand slides over the letters. I know this is Sherlock writing this missive. Which also means he was in the flat sometime while I was sleeping. He took away the other note and wrote this one.  
He's asking me to use my brain, to glean information, to come to a conclusion about why this paper is here. On my side table.

* * *

He can't be saying outright to me 'I LOVE YOU'. He who has no romantic inclinations. He can't. And where is the coat-swirling man anyways?  
Texting Detective Inspector Lestrade, _Have you seen or heard from Sherlock?_  
_Nothing in the last few days_  
I certainly don't want to go to his brother for information although, come to think of it, he'll probably know his location at this very moment.

I don't want to text him directly.  
But wait a minute, why?  
Am I avoiding what's directly in front of me? Am I not wanting to confront it?  
Slouching down, paper in hand, my eyes blur.  
John Watson, it's so plain, so easy to see.  
You're giving a wide berth to something that's so in your face you can't deny it.  
Bring it out, John. Say it out loud. Give it a voice.  


'Sherlock Holmes, you're telling me you love me.' A deep breath escapes my lips.

There it is. Sitting in the air in front of me. No escaping it. If I get up from this chair I'll walk right through it.  


          'I LOVE YOU'

Tears roll down my cheeks, down my chin, down to my neck.  
Now John Watson, now you have to face your feelings. Nevermind what people will say about you. Nevermind the whispers behind your back. Now is the time for truth.  
And the truth is 'I LOVE YOU' can be said to him also.

Do it. Call him home. Face him.

          _Sherlock come home, please_

The response is immediate.          _I'll be right there_

I hear his steps on the stairs and my heart races. I can't do this. I can't.

          "You called me John?" his face a closed book.  
Standing shakily to face him, I wave the paper in my hands. 

          "This, this is," the words stick in my mouth.  
His coat lazily drops to the floor, but his body remains motionless. 

Trembling, my face refusing to meet his, "You're saying, you mean--" 

          "Come, John, spit it out. I have no time for your insecurities."

You're a fool, John Watson, you're a fool. Say it. Once and for all. Tell him.

          " I'm also, I mean," waving the note in my hand like I'm waving a flag, "I love you. I love you, Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
